On the eve of Cousin Susie’s funeral
her sister shows me four porcelain ballerinas
shelved next to a stack of books. Set by size,
the dolls teeter on top of a dusty glass base.
She asks me to take the tallest, the one
with a coiled bun, eyes brown and round—
then tells me to open the folds of the doll’s
lacy tutu, where Susie’s fastened a short note
stitched with pale blue thread. I read Susie’s
message, written on her last lucid afternoon.
You’ve been such a dear, devoted cousin.
Stay close to my girls. They love you.
Pleated in threes, the paper still smells fresh
like new ink, preserved in Susie’s precise hand.
I fold and unfold the paper, as if I’m a child
learning to construct an origami fortune teller.
I look at her instructions one more time.
Your poetry books are on my nightstand.
Please pass them on to someone else.
Susie ever gracious—
even then, like her porcelain dolls left
on the shelf, one push away from breaking.
